


wicked play, wicked grin

by nanamilks



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Dacryphilia, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Fainting, Finger Sucking, Humiliation, Kinda, Licking, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Objectification, Painful Sex, Piss, Power Play, Rough Sex, Strength Kink, Subspace, subby little witch jisung just misses his demon fwb's massive cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanamilks/pseuds/nanamilks
Summary: When he sticks his hand in his coat pocket again, his fingers brush over the engraved handle of a knife that’s never been used, cold and sinister. He’d only needed a few drops of blood last time, when he’d wanted to call forth any fallen entity that wanted to show themselves to him, and had therefore only warranted a pin.Summoning an entity by name, one as powerful as the one he seeks, requires a larger sacrifice.(or: lonely witch jisung summons his favorite demon for a long-awaited reunion.)
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 38
Kudos: 361





	wicked play, wicked grin

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween~!! 
> 
> i decided four days before halloween that i wanted to get a fic out for you guys, and this is the result of me manically writing until 4 am every night lmao
> 
> this fic does get to be a lot in some places - there is a lot of blood talk (rly, it's kind of gross), jisung being pushed to his physical limits, and depictions of some emotional trauma. jisung is consenting to everything that is done to him here, but there is a moment toward the end where his consent is not expressly given, as he's unconscious. for that reason i've tagged this fic with dub con. if any of this bothers you, probably don't read this!!
> 
> i also know very little about witchcraft and demonology other than the hour's worth of internet research i did. this is a work of fiction. if you read anything in here that's not accurate no you didn't ♡
> 
> title comes from scar by the boyz !! i think that covers all my bases. i hope you all enjoy, and please have a happy and safe halloween!! ♡

The candle Jisung clutches in his hand washes the room in an amber glow just bright enough for him to see what he’s doing. It guides him as he circles the floor, the jagged rock in his other hand etching the last few runes into the floorboards beneath him. He has to look over his shoulder at the tome propped up against the windowsill to make sure he’s got the last one right, then encloses his work with a wide circle before he tosses the rock away into the dark of the room. He hears it land with a sharp clatter somewhere in the distance.

Jisung digs through his bag for the rest of the candles he’d brought, all of them well-used and wearing collars of spent wax with their wicks deep in their wells. He sets each one at a different point of the pentacle and lights them one by one with the candle he’s been holding. Their flames quiver with the breeze that rolls through the broken windows and Jisung quivers too, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands and his turtleneck higher.

He is here alone, but the ramshackle house is loud with the voices of the phantoms outside, lingering in the cemetery, restless. They recognize him and they’re _nosy_ , whispering about how Jisung’s here again and curious as to what he’s going to try tonight — they watch over his shoulders and yet they never address him. They kiss the back of his neck and then laugh while they run away. They can watch all they want; if Jisung pulls this off, he doesn’t mind having an audience. They were awfully interested last time, too.

Jisung does not think of himself as a strong witch. He is stronger than he was the very first time he found this place, crouching in shadowed corners and trying to enchant his belongings, asking the full moon for blessings, willing passing grades on exams. He has gotten stronger as his collection of tomes and internet research have expanded, and his beaten up book of summoning spells has him feeling primed and eager. At the memory of their last meeting, Jisung’s skin crawls with goosebumps.

From the sachet in the pocket of his coat, Jisung begins sprinkling ingredients into the stone bowl he always uses: crushed flowers, herbs, oil, and water. He pulls the half-empty bottle of whiskey from his backpack and trickles some into the bowl as well, taking a long drink of it before he caps it and puts it back. He hisses at the sting of the alcohol but needs it to steel his knotted gut.

When he sticks his hand in his coat pocket again, his fingers brush over the engraved handle of a knife that’s never been used, cold and sinister. He’d only needed a few drops of blood last time, when he’d wanted to call forth any fallen entity that wanted to show themselves to him, and had therefore only warranted a pin.

Summoning an entity by name, one as powerful as the one he seeks, requires a larger sacrifice.

Jisung brandishes the knife and observes the way it reflects the light of the moon behind him. He squats down before the sigil, placing the stone bowl in the center of it. The heavy platform soles of his boots make the floorboards creak with each movement, deafening the prying whispers in the wind for moments at a time. Jisung traces a line in his palm with the tip of it, just to see what it feels like, and then sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he braces himself.

With a soft inhale, he presses the edge of the blade into his palm and drags, watching as crimson promptly fills the deep cut and overflows.

Within seconds the blood starts to run, and Jisung tosses the knife aside in his hurry to hold his spilling hand over the bowl. He feels lightheaded from the sight of it, from the feeling, but begins chanting his memorized incantation as confidently as he can manage through the burning, the foreign sensation of life seeping from his body. Jisung uses his other hand to mix together the ingredients and then backs away from the sigil, sitting against the wall and holding his wounded palm to his chest, repeating the latin all the while. He uses Minho’s name. On the tenth recital, he watches the candles’ flames stand tall, flicker, and then go out.

The ritual is complete.

In the newfound dark, the silence rings in Jisung’s ears. Even the ghosts have gone quiet, watching with their faces pressed to the walls. Jisung tries to quiet his breath, too, squinting in the blackness for a sign that his spell worked. There are footsteps — Jisung counts three — before each candle reignites one by one. In the low light of their chaotic dancing is a man, haze of orange hair and pale skin shrouded in black clothing, standing in the center of the pentacle. He observes Jisung with a vacant face. And then he grins.

Minho looks just as he had the last time they met and yet he’s somehow even more beautiful, features so striking that Jisung feels as though he shouldn’t be looking at him directly. He wonders, distantly, if this is how Minho appears to everyone that summons him or if he’s some maddening expression of Jisung’s deepest desires. He is a demon of lust, all things considered.

Jisung’s veins run cold and he worries that he might be passing out. Would it be because of his bloody, fisted hands, or Minho’s presence? The power drained from him in order to bring him here? It’s like his heart is pounding in his ribcage yet not beating at all, and the feeling gets worse the longer he and Minho stare at each other. More than that, though, is the tightness in his stomach that burns white hot, hurts so bad that it brings tears to his eyes, makes his fists and legs tremble. Pure, unfiltered desire.

“Long time no see,” Minho coos. His unwavering smirk is both mischievous and kind, like an old friend wondering what took so long to contact him again. Jisung tries to focus on the sharp, razor-like edges of his canines and molars rather than the pressing black of his eyes that’s already making him feel delirious. “I thought we had so much _fun_ together last time, Jisung.”

He remembers him? It’s been impossible for Jisung to forget him, but to know that Minho holds enough of a memory of him to know his name makes Jisung’s thighs press together as something like possessiveness courses through him. Their chance meeting made an impression on him. Does Minho think of him often? Jisung would be lying if he said he himself could think of anything _other_ than Minho.

“I had to—” Jisung’s voice doesn’t sound like his own. He swallows the lump in his throat. “I h-had to learn how to get you back. Had to… get you back.”

He doesn’t realize he’s starting to cry until he has to sniffle to clear the pressure that’s grown in his skull. His face is damp with sweat and tears and Minho looks like he pities him, but he knows that he doesn’t. Minho knows exactly the effect he has on those who call upon him; makes them shake and sob in despair for him to take away the ache caused just by being in his presence. A hunger only he can satisfy. Jisung is so hungry he feels like he could die.

“Sweet boy,” Minho croons, folding his arms over his chest. “You must have worked so hard.”

Jisung nods.

“What exactly did you need me for? You seem a bit… distraught.”

It’s a bit sick and twisted, the way that Minho plays with him, but Jisung expected as much. What else does one summon a sex demon for? In all fairness, Minho could have appeared here and offered him nothing but conversation and Jisung would have scraped up every last bit of it. But that’s not what he wants. Not what he craves more than anything else in this world that he could possibly think of.

“I asked you a question, Jisung. I’ve been very busy. I don’t have all eternity to wait for you to learn how to talk.”

“I missed you,” Jisung chokes out, the shame of it flushing his face in pink. “I wanted you to touch me again.” And _fuck_ , was there something indescribable about being touched by Minho. To feel so much pain that it felt like ecstasy, to give him the power to bring Jisung so close to death without killing him, to be in some exaggerated purgatory version of subspace for days after because their bond would break — he swears he could get addicted to it. He tugs at the turtleneck of his sweater as he starts to sweat more, wanting his clothes off, squirming in his spot on the ground. “P-Please, master.”

Minho makes a sympathetic little noise with his head cocked to the side, regarding how Jisung’s already falling to pieces and he hasn’t even been touched. He holds one of his slender hands out, beckoning Jisung to join him inside the sigil. “Come, angel. Master can’t touch you if you’re so far away.”

Jisung scrambles to his feet with a strength he didn’t know he had left in him. He wavers for a moment at the threshold of the circle, a heavy energy forming a wall between himself and Minho. The demon watches him expectantly, leaving it up to Jisung to break the barrier and form the bond. Of course Jisung does.

Crossing the line sends a wave of nausea over him, the change in energy around him making his brain pound against his skull and bile rise into his throat. It dissipates as soon as it comes on, though, and the fire in his gut grows so large it starts swallowing every part of him, making him feel underwater, drowning in eros. He and Minho are nearly chest to chest and although Jisung’s eyes are closed, he can feel Minho’s all over him.

“You could have called any one of my idiot friends, and _I’m_ the hellspawn you wanted to spend your night with?” Minho’s first touch takes Jisung’s breath away and all he does is rest his fingers on the sleeve of Jisung’s coat, sliding down so that he can wrap them around his wrist. He lifts Jisung’s hand, gone pliant with the rest of his limbs, and allows the blood to flow out of his wound with the pull of gravity.

He presses his thumb against the cut, drawing a sharp gasp from Jisung and a new stream of blood, streaming down his wrist and over Minho’s own hand. “Made such a pretty sacrifice for me. You like me that much, Jisung?”

Jisung follows Minho’s gaze to the deep red cascade and back. His eyes have gone entirely black like two chasms ready to swallow Jisung whole and when Minho sets them on Jisung’s blown pupils, it seems like swallowing him whole is exactly what he intends to do. Jisung nods slowly, and Minho flashes his pointed, white teeth.

“Good thing I like you, too.”

The demon raises Jisung’s dripping hand to his mouth and, without breaking their stare-down, he trails his tongue from Jisung’s wrist all the way to the starting edge of his wound. He collects Jisung’s blood on his tongue, some of it running into the corner of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. Jisung is so entranced by the sight that he barely registers the sheer pain of the contact, how Minho’s spit feels like acid in his flesh.

And then Minho is letting Jisung’s arm drop back to his side so that he can cup the back of the human’s neck, guiding their mouths together with a smoothness that has Jisung’s head spinning. Minho snakes his tongue into Jisung’s mouth first, offering Jisung’s own blood before giving him a proper kiss. Jisung’s lids flutter shut and he tries to pinpoint the taste of his essence as they kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy until he’s sure it’s drooling out the sides. It’s like dirty pennies off the ground, a little salty.

“You taste so good, angel,” Minho murmurs when he pulls back, perfect lips stained red. “I knew you would.”

Minho’s hand rounds to Jisung’s throat where he doesn’t squeeze or grip — just holds. He can feel Jisung’s Adam’s apple bob beneath it. He does grip, then, to guide Jisung down onto his knees.

“Do you remember how I taste?”

More prominent than the flavor of Minho’s cock is the feeling of it. Jisung’s mouth is stretched so wide to accommodate him that it feels like his jaw might unhinge, and it feels like Minho is so deep in his throat that he could be in his fucking lungs. He tries to keep his eyes open as the demon uses him, both thrusting into his mouth and guiding Jisung’s head to meet each movement, but he has to squeeze them shut every time he thinks he might throw up.

The tears all over his face won’t stop coming, and the sight of them seems to only egg Minho on. He recalls how Minho had said, last time, that Jisung looked pretty when he cried, and Jisung’s thankful he feels that way because he doesn't think he could stop crying if he wanted to. The prettiest thing about their current situation, though, is the way Minho sounds. He’s the farthest thing from an angel but the moans and soft gasps that leave him sound like a holy choir.

When Minho pulls Jisung off of him, Jisung retches and heaves for air as though he’d been on the brink of death. His chest is on fire as he breathes life back into it and his hands shake so violently that he has to hold onto Minho for stability. Minho strokes his mussed, dark hair, practically petting him while Jisung tries to ground himself. It’s at that moment that Jisung realizes he came, the sticky warmth in his pants creeping to the forefront of his senses.

“More,” Jisung rasps, lying his head against Minho’s belly. “Please, I want more.”

Minho laughs, a melody unfitting for the circumstances. “I certainly love playing with you, pet. You’re so eager.” He smiles when Jisung looks up at him and thumbs over the dried blood on his chin. “Take your clothes off.”

Jisung has a hard time detaching himself from Minho but knows that the sooner he obeys, the sooner they’ll be back together. He shrugs off his coat and pulls his sweater up over his head, tossing both beyond the pentacle and going for the closure of his jeans. He gets them halfway down his thin legs and then realizes his shoes have to go first — he’s so dizzy with want and he must look ridiculous scrambling to get undressed in this small space, but Minho doesn’t jeer him. He doesn’t do anything. Just waits for Jisung with his hands clasped together patiently before him.

The ghosts are laughing, though. He tries to ignore them but humiliation flushes his cheeks a bright pink.

Jisung’s jeans and chunky boots join the rest of his clothes elsewhere and he takes the hand Minho offers, standing up on unsteady feet. He doesn’t look at Minho, especially not as Minho raises their linked hands and bids Jisung to spin in a circle for him. The ghosts laugh louder.

“Oh!” Minho exclaims, having noticed the blatant mess on Jisung’s soft dick that’s desperately trying to harden again. “You already came just from that? I guess you don’t need me anymore, then.”

The witch’s head snaps up at that. He starts shaking his head furiously, eyes welling up yet again and he squeezes Minho’s hand with both of his, crowding himself closer to the demon. “No, no, no, master, please,” he sobs, “please, I need you! I need you so much! I was so good, I worked so hard to—”

Minho silences Jisung with three of Jisung’s own fingers shoved so far into his mouth that it makes him gag. Jisung obediently laps at them, too short to reach down his throat like Minho wants them to. He gets them far more wet than they need to be, but he likes it that way. Minho has to fight him a little to get him to let go, slapping him beneath the chin.

“I said that’s enough,” Minho orders, “slut.”

Minho turns Jisung around so he’s no longer facing the demon but can still feel his breath, so hot on his skin. He kicks Jisung’s legs apart so that his stance is wider and pushes his back just enough that he’s bent over. He holds onto his shoulder to keep him up. “Get yourself ready for me.”

The whimper that leaves Jisung’s throat is somehow more embarrassing than anything else he’s done so far. He tries to look over his shoulder but Minho turns his head back.

“What’s the problem? You want _me_ to do it?” At that, Minho clutches Jisung’s shoulder harder, the pointed edges of his nails digging into his skin like a fork. Jisung shakes his head quickly.

“N-No, it’s just… I—I already did, master! Earlier,” Jisung whines, voice tiny.

“You think you’re ready for _this_ because you stuck a little finger up your ass this morning?” Jisung feels Minho press his massive, menacing cock against his ass. That’s fair. Jisung might need his entire fist for that. He shakes his head again.

“Then do as I said,” Minho spits, driving his nails in further until he’s surely broken skin, “you disobedient little whore.”

“I’m… m’not,” Jisung whines again, reaching behind himself to rub the pads of two of his fingers against his hole, puckered and fluttering. He dips one finger in with little resistance, moving it in and out and against his walls, and then introduces the second finger, hissing softly at the slight burn. “Please…”

“Yes you are. Hurry up.”

Jisung can feel countless eyes on him as he works himself open, but none bore into him quite like Minho’s. He gets up to four fingers, whining pathetically into the candlelit dark, before Minho lets go of his shoulder and leaves scarlet crescents in his wake. The loss of his touch makes Jisung’s movements halt for a moment, but he wills himself to keep going otherwise Minho will call him bad again.

“Come here, sweet boy. You’ve done well.” Minho’s voice comes after agonizing minutes, deceptively soft. Jisung turns around and looks at him with hopeful eyes. The demon reels him in with hands on his waist and Jisung cautiously rests his hands on Minho’s chest, sliding them up the black silk until he can rest them behind his neck.

“Did well,” Jisung parrots once, twice. Minho presses a chaste kiss to Jisung’s chapped lips.

“Very well.”

When Minho connects their mouths in an impassioned kiss, Jisung exhales in relief. When Minho reaches down to grip him by the thighs and lift him up, Jisung wraps his legs around his waist and holds on for dear life.

Jisung gets lost in kissing him, sucking on Minho’s long tongue and biting at his lips, and barely notices that Minho has already started guiding the head of his cock into him, pushing through the ring easily. It feels good, _full_ already, but Jisung knows there’s so much left to go. He’s moaning and whimpering into Minho’s open mouth as he pushes further, and soon enough it feels like he’s being split in half and it hurts so _bad_ but he wants all of it. He throws his head back and sobs, sobs like he’s being ripped open while Minho eases him down.

“You can take it,” Minho whispers, lips against Jisung’s ear.

“W-Won’t fit, i-it won’t fit…”

“You’re swallowing me so well, pet. I fit perfectly.”

The slick sheen of sweat on Jisung’s body means Minho has to grip him tighter as not to drop him, his claws branding the skin of his thighs as he slowly fucks up into him, opening Jisung up for him. Jisung is near to hyperventilating, fingers grasping all over Minho in a desperate search for relief from the searing pain of his cock finally bottoming out. Minho stills, finally allowing Jisung a moment to adapt to the size, the heat buried deep inside of him. He feels so full he could burst at the seams.

Minho leans his forehead against Jisung’s, studying the way his face contorts as he begins moving the human along his cock, using him like a fleshlight, so pliant. The transition from pain to pleasure is a slow one, gradually washing over Jisung like ice water through his red-hot veins until it takes him completely. His head tips back like it’s too heavy to hold up and his eyes roll back too, the sounds of his pleasure coming in aborted moans and downright screams. Minho feeds off of it, driving his cock harder, faster into the rag doll in his arms.

Jisung tries to formulate words to tell Minho how good it feels, to thank him, but all he can do is drool and shout. He grips onto the hair at the back of Minho’s head and tugs so sharply that it makes Minho shout, too, and tighten his own grip on Jisung. “ _Fuck_ ,” the demon mutters, trailing his long tongue from Jisung’s neck and along the side of his face. “Such a perfect toy for me.”

When the assault against his overworked prostate makes Jisung cum, he cums hard. It spills from him in dense spurts between their bodies, staining Minho’s pristine black clothes in heavenly white.

Minho cups Jisung’s lolling head with one hand, holding it steady as Jisung’s eyes struggle to focus and stop trying to roll into the back of his head. Minho laughs in amusement, shaking Jisung’s head from left to right to see how they roll around.

“Wake up, gorgeous. I’m not done with you.”

Jisung’s not even sure he’s fully conscious at this point, but he breathes, “m-more.”

The cold ground on his back wakes him up; Minho only spares him another breath before he starts fucking him again, making Jisung’s arch back high and his hands scramble for something to hold onto. His nails scrape the floorboards and he cries out with each brutal thrust, looking pleadingly to the demon who’s knelt between his legs, fucking him with all of hell’s rage.

“Is this what you wanted? What you brought me here for? Do you _love_ this?” Minho’s voice comes evenly although he looks about as wrecked as Jisung feels: orange hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, eye makeup smudged, the high collar of his shirt loosened from how Jisung had tugged on it. Jisung nods quickly. He can barely lift his head, but he uses all of his strength to pick it up so he can see the way Minho’s cock forms a large bulge in his stomach. The sight knocks the wind out of him.

Minho’s movements never falter. “Do you love _me_ , Jisung?”

“Y-yes,” Jisung gasps, trying to wiggle his hips to fuck Minho back despite how tired he is. “Yes, love you, master, need you— Jisung loves, a- _ah_ ,” he drops his head again. “l-love you… J-Jisungie loves you…”

“Are you mine?”

Jisung nods faintly as the pleasure builds and builds again, coursing through his body like an electric current. His body tenses so hard that it shakes and a weak stream of cum surges from him, giving way to a gush of piss. “Yours,” he whispers. His vision turns to white and black spots and the world around him begins to sound distant, muffled. As all of his senses begin to leave him, he still registers the persistent jolting of Minho continuing to use his limp body.

“Mine. All fucking mine, angel,” is the last thing he hears.

The feeling of a million pairs of hands shaking him awake pulls Jisung from whatever sleep he’d fallen into. He awakes with a start and finds himself alone, discarded in the center of the pentagram in the pitch dark. It is still dark beyond the broken windows, as well, and he figures he’s either been unconscious for mere minutes or perhaps even hours. It’s hard to get up with the deep-seated pain in his bones, his skin, his ass — god, his _ass_ — but he eventually makes it to his feet. He is still naked, and the copious amounts of scratches and cuts and bodily fluids all over him don’t do much to keep him warm in the frigid night.

Jisung limps over to his clothes and pulls them on slowly, wincing with each bend of his limbs or scrape of fabric over his sensitive skin. He makes his rounds to pick up all of his candles and scuffs the sole of his boot over the pentacle to rub away the chalky etching as best as he can with the little energy left in him. When he’s finished cleaning, he tugs the straps of his backpack onto his shoulders and drags himself out of the decrepit house on unsteady legs. He throws up in the yard.

The emptiness begins to settle in as he walks through the overgrown property and into the cemetery, following his usual route home. The ghosts are quiet now, watching him from their own homes in the ground. He hopes they enjoyed the show. He wonders what it must have been like to be an observer, a voyeur in the corner of the room during one of the most vulnerable moments of his life. His chest hurts. He starts to cry.

He cries as he sits in his bathtub, knees pulled to his chest in a sea of herbs and oils and water that’s far too hot. It feels good on his skin and he hopes the healing ritual will work quickly to numb his body. Jisung lies his head against his knees and lets out a sob, pressing his fingers hard against his thighs as he hugs them. He worked so hard. He was so good. He thought he was prepared to feel like this again.

Jisung watches the dancing flame of one of the candles around the bathtub and sees nothing but Minho. He almost wants to reach out and grab it, hold it in his hands and keep it safe. He wonders if this burn would feel as sweet.

He furrows his eyebrows as the flames of each candle grow taller, raising their arms toward the ceiling like disembodied souls reaching for the heavens. He assumes his healing spell is charging.

But then, they flicker.

Then they go out.

There are footsteps — Jisung counts three — before each candle reignites one by one.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on my [nsfw twitter](https://twitter.com/lNNlEC0RE) for updates, drabbles, and sneak peeks ~


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